A man and a quail descend to farmland. Forget cellophane this mister wants to see some quail on quail. For which he wears my nellie boots. His cock-petite & on my lips it was quick quick & I obey to ‘lift up your cups’ on the way in. His wild end was snow on snow & robins cutting in. I have no escape pattern. Some ornithologists moving away. Robins for most people. Ovens you need. At the hay nets the prose is clumsy. Some órnithólogísts they móve awáy. Bare ruined choirs etc. Kitten heels. Dolly pockets. Knee-high flats.